Her voice came through the loudspeaker in pained, truculent tones. ‘All right? . . . I hear mass. I say a prayer for the sins of my children . . . I put five thousand lire into the poor-box, and then some young kid grabs me outside God’s church, throws me into a car, smothers me with a blanket and drives me away!’
‘And then what happened?’
‘Then he talks on the phone, which I cannot understand. Then he drives me home, kisses me on both cheeks and hands me over to Maria . . . Paolo, what the hell are you doing? I told you, the day you got involved with that animal Conti, that you would end in the hands of the devil . . . How can my son come to this? . . . All my prayers . . . All the candles I’ve burned in all the churches . . . You know that young man had a priest with him . . . a priest! . . . What are you doing now with priests who kidnap old ladies?’
Creasy couldn’t help but smile.
Grazzini grimaced at him and punched the button to turn off the loudspeaker. Into the telephone he said, ‘Mama . . . put Maria on the phone.’ The capo spoke a few words to his maid and then cradled the phone. He looked at Creasy for a long time and then asked, ‘Why?’
Creasy shrugged, ‘I told you . . . I don’t make war on women.’
Grazzini shook his head in puzzlement.
‘I don’t understand. You are now totally in my power . . .’ Realisation came over him. ‘You knew that if you kept my mother, I could never have let you go. You also knew that if I killed you, your son would have killed my mother. It was a stand-off.’
Creasy nodded. He was still half-smiling, occasionally glancing at his right hand. ‘Yes it was. Now there is no stand-off . . . But now you have a problem.’
‘What problem?’
‘Well . . . being the kind of man you are . . . in a strange way, a man of honour, you have to let me go . . . But if you let me go, you will lose your machismo with the little idiots who look up to you.’ With his head he gestured towards the door and the unseen Abrata. ‘The little idiots who give you power . . . You cannot afford to lose your machismo, which is your power, because if you do, one night the little idiot will blow your brains out.’
Grazzini looked at him steadily, acknowledging nothing and admitting nothing.
Creasy told him what to do. ‘Go to the door and tell the idiot Abrata to bring a sharp knife from the kitchen. It should be a serrated knife.’
Grazzini’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement.
‘Do it,’ Creasy urged.
Seconds passed and then Grazzini stood up and went to the door. He came back three minutes later, holding a knife. He closed the door and walked over to Creasy.
‘Is it sharp?’ Creasy asked.
Grazzini ran his thumb over the blade and nodded.
Creasy said softly, ‘Look at the little finger of my left hand.’
Grazzini leaned over and looked. The whole hand was white. There was only half of a little finger.
‘The rest was shot off,’ Creasy said. ‘A long time ago. It’s amazing how little a man has to use his little finger . . . except sometimes to pick his nose.’ He looked up at the capo and then said, ‘Cut off the little finger of my right hand at the second joint.’
The capo looked at him uncomprehending.
t’s a good way out,’ Creasy said casually. ‘You cut it off without anaesthetic. I will give a very comprehensive and realistic scream. Do you have a clean handkerchief?’
Grazzini had a numb look on his face.
‘Do you have a clean handkerchief?’ Creasy repeated.
The capo nodded and pulled a cream silk handkerchief from his top jacket pocket. Creasy nodded approvingly.
‘After you’ve cut it off wrap it round the stump. At that point I faint.’ He smiled again, it will be very effective. You take the finger out and give it to Abrata, and tell him to have it embalmed and set in crystal and have it sent down to your home in Rome as a gift to your mother. . . . He will understand that kind of thing. Then you have them send me back to my hotel.’
Grazzini looked at the knife and then at the little finger.
Satta and Bellu were silent, looking at the bandaged right hand.
‘It hardly hurt,’ Creasy said. ‘My hand was totally anaesthetised anyway . . . But Grazzini was no surgeon.’ He smiled at Satta. ‘Your brother could give him lessons . . . I screamed very effectively and then fainted.’ He reached with his good hand to the bedside table and picked up the bloodied silk handkerchief, ‘I lost half a useless finger and gained a lovely handkerchief.’
Chapter 45
The Initiate was called forward. Under the black cowl his face was dark and thin; a long jutting chin, beneath a straight narrow mouth. His eyes were also dark, within deep sockets. Those eyes showed trepidation. They flickered from side to side and the man hesitated.
He was called forward again. For a moment he looked at the black altar. The centrepiece was a black inverted cross about two metres high. Behind it stood a huge black candle in an ebony holder. Six smaller black candles were arranged on either side of the inverted cross: thirteen in all. In front of the cross lay a long silver-bladed knife with a black horn handle. On the left of the altar was the figure of a rearing, stuffed goat, its mouth pulled back to reveal white teeth in a hideous grin. On the right side of the altar was a pure white cockerel, tethered by its feet with black silk cord. Next to it was a white human skull.
The high priestess moved from the left-hand side to stand in front of the inverted cross. She was dressed in maroon robes topped by a black cowl.
She called his name again and the Initiate moved forward on legs that no longer took orders from his brain. He climbed three steps and stood one step below her. He looked up into her white-powdered face. Her lipstick was black, as were the horns of a goat painted on to her forehead above her mascaraed eyes. She reached forward and placed the flat of her hand on his head and intoned the words: ‘Do you renounce God?’
Without thought, he spoke. ‘I renounce God in any form.’
She lifted her eyes and looked at the assembled congregation, all dressed in black gowns. Beyond them was a long table laden with food and wine. The congregation numbering thirteen spoke in unison. ‘He renounces God.’
The high priestess withdrew her hand, turned to the altar and picked up the silver-bladed knife. With her back to the Initiate and the congregation, she raised it high above her head. The congregation repeated in hushed whispers, ‘He renounces God.’
The high priestess moved along the altar to the cockerel, grasped it at the base of its neck and, with a practised slash of the knife, cut off its head. She then cut through the black bindings, laid down the knife, grasped the twitching body and inverted it over the skull squeezing it as the blood dripped down. After a minute she turned and flung the carcass at the congregation. There were screams of anticipation as they scrambled for it on their hands and knees.
The high priestess picked up the head of the cockerel and dropped it into the cavity of the skull together with its blood. Then with her left hand she reached down and lifted the hem of her robe. With her right hand she picked up the skull, held it between her straddled legs and urinated into it.
The Initiate stood as still as a slab of granite, looking only at the inverted cross.
The high priestess dropped her gown and, holding the skull reverently in both hands, moved back in front of the Initiate. She held out the skull to him. Very slowly, he reached out his hands, took it from her, brought it to his mouth and drank.
The congregation whispered again. ‘He renounces God.’
The Initiate pulled back the cowl of his robe. It revealed a young face, no more than thirty years old. Dark, long hair parted in the middle. The high priestess took the skull from him and poured the remaining contents over his head. She then placed the skull back on the altar and in one movement slipped off her gown. She was naked. Her body was white and plump. Immediately, the Initiate and the rest of the congregation also disrobed. The congregation comprised seven wo
men and six men. Their ages ranged from the early twenties to the late fifties.
They all moved to the banqueting table and for the next half hour gorged themselves with rich food and fine wine. Then the orgy began and continued until dawn.
As the sun rose two men emerged from the remote villa, and stood looking down the valley towards the small village five kilometres away. They could see the tower of the church and heard the chimes as the bells rang to summon the faithful.
The men were in their mid-fifties. They were dressed in well-cut, sober business suits. One of the men was short, thin and sallow. The other was tall and muscular. His face was ebony black and he was totally bald.
The small one turned to the other and said, ‘It went well.’
The black man nodded. ‘Very well . . . It has taken a year to bring him to that. He will never forget that night.’
‘I agree,’ the first man answered. ‘But still, within a month he must attend a full mass with a genuine sacrifice.’
The second man shrugged, it will not be easy. We had a good prospective candidate, but she was lost in that fiasco in Marseille.’
‘Yes,’ the first man said grimly. ‘Lost, together with our deposit of twenty thousand dollars. We must have a replacement.’
The second man said, ‘At the moment the only ones available are from Asia or Africa.’
The first man shook his head and said quietly but emphatically, ‘No! She must be fair-skinned and younger than puberty. We must pay as much as necessary. Perhaps we can persuade Camel to bring forward the Albanian project. After all, he already has the premises, and the cover is well in place.’
The big man raised his black head and looked towards the southeast and slowly nodded. ‘Yes. I will visit Tunis and confer with him. It will be much easier to find such a one in Albania, while that country is in such chaos. Also I must report to him fully on the disquieting events that have happened in the last few days. It has been many years since enquiries have been made.’
‘You think it is serious?’ the small man asked. ‘Do you think there may be some connection with what happened in Marseille?’
The tall black man shook his head. ‘I think it has nothing to do with Marseille. That was probably just a gang war. But I’m not happy that we heard of two enquiries being made from such different sources . . . No matter . . . I have already taken action.’ He gestured at the villa behind them. ‘Our Initiate inherited a vast fortune last year. He will part with it in time, but only if he continues to slide ever deeper. The Goat must have its sacrifice.’
Chapter 46
Laura took Juliet shopping in the village of Nadur. First they went to the baker and bought four crusty round loaves, hot out of the wood-burning oven. Juliet asked her how to say bread in Maltese, and repeated it several times until Laura was satisfied. Then they went to the butcher and Laura had to teach her words for all the different kinds of meat. The usual crowd of black-clad old ladies were in the butcher’s shop, as much to have their morning gossip as to buy meat. Laura had to explain that Juliet was newly arrived and had been adopted by Uomo as a sister for Michael. The old ladies nodded in approval. Some of them had up to fifteen children of their own and definitely approved of large families, even if they were adopted. They went on to the grocer’s and Juliet’s lessons in Maltese continued.
On the way back to the car they passed a newly opened boutique, and stopped to admire the dresses in the window. On an impulse, Laura took Juliet’s hand and led her into the shop, saying, ‘It’s Joey and Maria’s second wedding anniversary on Saturday. It will be a big party and you can’t go in those jeans.’
She bought her a bright red dress, which Juliet thought was a bit loud, but she didn’t object because of Laura’s obvious enthusiasm. The owner of the boutique thought the dress was a bit large and offered to take it in, but Laura, practical as ever, pointed out that Juliet was rapidly putting on weight and would soon grow into it. Instead she bought her a wide black leather belt to keep it tight. Then, naturally, Juliet had to have some shoes to go with it, so they went off to the shoe shop.
Michael had given his sister a hundred and fifty Maltese pounds before leaving, but Laura would not let Juliet pay for anything.
‘You always insist on doing the washing up and helping with the cleaning,’ she admonished. ‘So this is my present for you.’
Back at the farmhouse, Juliet helped her make lunch, which was always the biggest meal of the day. First a thick vegetable soup, which Laura explained was called Widow’s Soup because, with such an abundance of vegetables in Gozo, it was both cheap and filling. Then she made a pork casserole with lots of vegetables. She made enough for about ten people, explaining that it kept well and you never knew how many people might turn up for a meal. The dish was called kawlata and happened to be one of Paul’s favourites. He came in from the fields exactly at twelve o’clock, having been working for six straight hours. Juliet watched as he ate a huge bowl of soup followed by an even bigger bowl of kawlata. During the meal he demolished a whole loaf of bread and drank a bottle of his own wine.
The phone rang as the table was being cleared. It was Creasy. He spoke a few words to Laura, and then she called an excited Juliet to the phone.
He spoke to her for a long time, first assuring her that both he and Michael were well. She asked where they were, but he only replied that they were ‘somewhere in Italy’ and might be away for a few more weeks, but would try to make at least a quick visit to Gozo. He then told her that, starting next week, she would have to go to school.
‘I don’t want to go to school.’
‘You have to,’ he answered gruffly.
‘I don’t speak the language yet,’ she said petulantly, ‘It will take me at least another month or more, so I would be wasting my time at school.’
She heard his soft laugh.
‘That’s not a problem. There’s a school in Kercem which is run by nuns. They teach in English. I already spoke to Laura about it; she will arrange it.’
Juliet gave Laura a baleful look. Laura smiled back at her sweetly.
On the phone Creasy said, ‘You’ll meet children of your own age, and make friends.’
‘I already have friends.’
‘Like who?’
‘Well . . . like Laura and Paul, and Joey and Maria . . . and the old fisherman Loretto who brings Paul fish and drinks all his wine.’
‘You’re going to school,’ Creasy said firmly. ‘I don’t want a stupid daughter and Michael doesn’t want a stupid sister . . . When I get back I’ll buy you a bicycle.’
‘A bicycle!’ she answered excitedly.
‘Don’t bribe her,’ Laura shouted from across the room.
Meekly, Juliet said into the phone, ‘OK, Creasy. I’ll go to school. But it has to be a red bicycle to go with my new dress.’ She explained about the party and chatted on for another few minutes. Later, helping Laura with the washing up in the kitchen, she said wistfully, ‘I never had a bicycle . . . I don’t know how to ride one.’
‘I’ll teach you,’ Laura said with a smile, and then sternly went on, ‘Don’t think you can get around me like you get around Creasy and Paul. What a girl like you needs is a strong woman around to keep her head level.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Juliet answered, thinking about the red dress and the black leather belt and the matching shoes.
Chapter 47
The Dane had often attended strategy meetings and seminars run by the police force in Copenhagen. It was his nature normally to keep his counsel at such meetings, unless even a very senior officer made a stupid remark which related to his own expertise. But Jens Jensen had never participated in the kind of meeting which was now in progress.
First of all, he had never been to a meeting at which the food had been so spectacular. They sat at a large oval table on the terrace of the Pensione Splendide. The sweep of the lights of Naples was below them and the huge bay beyond. The meal had been expertly served by a gruff ol
d man who looked as though he should have retired years ago. Jens looked around at the participants and yet again had the schizophrenic feeling that, on the one hand, he was totally out of place in such a group, and on the other, that he was somehow part of it. He was sitting at the centre of the table. Creasy sat opposite. On one side of Creasy was Michael and on the other side was Maxie. At the right-hand end of the table sat Guido and on the left-hand sat Colonel Satta. The others were Massimo Bellu, The Ghost, Frank Miller, Rene Callard, Pietro and, on Jens' left, The Owl. With the exception of himself, Satta and Bellu, he doubted whether a harder bunch of men had ever been grouped together. He knew that even the young Pietro, who was Guido’s semi-adopted son, had clawed his way up from sleeping on the streets as a thirteen-year-old to being a very hard young man of twenty-two.
The dinner was delicious. Of course they had antipasti to start, and that was followed by pasta della frutta di mare. The main course was cernia al forno cooked with white wine and olive oil. As contorni to the cernia, they had patate lesse and piselli al finocchio. For dessert the old man served charlotte di fragole.
Jens glanced again at Creasy’s right hand and the bandage around the stub of the little finger. Once again he felt goose bumps at how Creasy had lost that finger, and once again his mind was almost numb at the reason he had done so. He tried to put himself in the same position, trying to face down a Mafia don while strapped helplessly to a chair. Not just face him down, but enlist him to a cause.
The conversation had been both light-hearted and serious. Light-hearted when he himself had drily recounted the kidnapping of Grazzini’s old mother. How she had whacked Michael across the face with her stick. Michael had grinned ruefully and rubbed his bruised cheekbone. He then told how the old woman had taught him a whole new dictionary of swear words and how, when they had let her go into the safe arms of Grazzini’s maid, Maria, she had gone through the door not cursing her abductors but calling on God to give her son some brains for a change.
The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Page 19